


Dies Irae:  (Part 3 of THE TEN PLAGUES AFFAIR)

by Avery11



Series: THE TEN PLAGUES AFFAIR [3]
Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, ten plagues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:44:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who is Whimsy Darlington, and why is she trying to destroy UNCLE?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dies Irae:  (Part 3 of THE TEN PLAGUES AFFAIR)

This is Part 3 of **“The Ten Plagues Affair.”** In order to understand what's going on, you really need to read the earlier installments.

 **Start from the beginning:**  Part One: The Trouble With Amphibians: http://archiveofourown.org/works/444749 ; Part 2: A Tale of Two Friendships: http://archiveofourown.org/works/444761 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/avery11/pic/00036x5q/)

**Dies Irae**  

**Act I:  A Cold Day In Hell**

Napoleon stared at the depressing pile of paperwork covering his desk, wondering, not for the first time, whether file folders procreated at night when the lights were out. The necessity of reading each and every report that crossed his desk was one of his least favorite duties as CEA. _At least it's Friday,_ he thought, rubbing his weary eyes. Not that that provided any sort of absolution where UNCLE was concerned.

The door slid open.

“Ah, there you are,” Illya declared grumpily. “I was about to send Mr. Waverly's Saint Bernard out to look for you.”

“Illya!” Napoleon's face lit with pleasure. “When did you get back from Athens? The mission was a success, I trust?”

“Never mind that, Napoleon. Have you looked outside your door recently?”    

“No-o.” He gestured toward the stack of reports. “Unlike you, I've been trapped in here for the past four hours, attempting to find the top of my desk.” He grinned wolfishly. “Why, is there a beautiful woman waiting for me out there?”

“Not -- exactly. Perhaps you should come and see for yourself.”

Alerted by his partner's tone, Napoleon rose, laying aside the file on the likelihood of a coup in Sudan. The door whooshed open at his approach, admitting a blast of frigid air.

“What the --?”

A picturesque snowfall drifted ever-so-gently down from the ceiling vents, fat flakes covering the linoleum in a sparkling blanket of white. Pea-sized pellets of hail, intermixed with the snow, struck the metal walls of the corridor with a sharp ping. Doors were open up and down the long hallway as agents and support staff peered out at the bizarre phenomenon.

“It's snowing,” Napoleon declared unnecessarily.

“For the last ten minutes. Yes. I know.” As Napoleon watched, Illya shook his mop of pale blonde hair. It was like watching a very wet, shaggy dog shake itself dry.

“And the _reason_ it's snowing in the middle of HQ would be --?”

Illya shrugged. “Whimsy Darlington, unless I miss my guess. Hail was one of the Ten Biblical Plagues.”

Napoleon groaned. “And there goes the weekend. For a brief, shining moment, I actually thought I might make it to my sister's picnic on Saturday.”

“Not likely, I'm afraid. We are on full alert, not that there is any way of announcing it. The intercoms have shorted out on several floors, and portions of the alarm system are down as well. Frozen wiring, I am told. We're managing with pen communicators for the moment. You did not answer yours, so Mr. Waverly sent me to find you.”

“As of eight o'clock this morning, my communicator was at the bottom of the East River -- I had a little run-in with some of THRUSH's finest on the way to work.” Napoleon sighed, and reached for his jacket. “Come on, _tovarisch,_ let's go face The Wrath of Waverly. Lord knows, it can't be worse than reading these damned reports.”

They stepped into the corridor and, to his dismay, Napoleon felt his feet sink, ankle-deep, into a pile of slush. He glanced down at his soaking-wet loafers. “The day gets better and better. I just bought these shoes. They're hand-stitched Italian leather. Custom made. Imported.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “They are shoes, Napoleon, not bars of gold bullion.”

“Easy for you to say, _tovarisch_. You don't know what I paid for them.”

“Come, Napoleon,” Illya replied with saintlike patience. “Perhaps if we hurry, there will be cocoa.”

They slid their way down the long hall, pelted by nuggets of what was now marble-sized hail. The snow swirled eerily in the enclosed space, and a thin veneer of frost covered the light panels, several of which had begin to flicker ominously. They paused to assist a stenographer who had fallen, her tight pencil skirt and stiletto heels having become an occupational hazard under the slippery conditions. “Guess I'll have to bring snowshoes to work from now on,” the woman smiled as she massaged her bruised bum. “And buy slacks.”

“Slacks on our female personnel,” Napoleon sighed with genuine regret. “Now that _would_ be a crisis.”

The door slid open.

“Gentlemen, don't dilly-dally,” Waverly ordered brusquely. “Come in. And close the blasted door before we all freeze to death.”

They took their seats at the round table, and gratefully accepted mugs of hot, black coffee from Lisa Rogers. “Unseasonable weather for May,” Napoleon remarked drily.

“Hmm, yes. It seems that someone has managed to reprogram the building's environmental systems.”

“Someone? You mean Whimsy.”

“Indeed, Mr. Solo.”

Illya half-rose from his seat. “Do you want me to --?”

Waverly dismissed the idea with an impatient wave of his hand. “It's being attended to, Mr. Kuryakin. I'd rather hear your thoughts on this.” He placed a sheet of stationery on the table, and rotated it to face his agents. “I trust you recognize the handwriting, gentlemen?”

“'Wishing you a cold day in Hell,” Napoleon read. “'Kisses, Whimsy.'”

Illya inspected the watermark. _“Barad._ The Hebrew word for hail.”

“The message arrived at the Del Floria's Entrance, concealed in the breast pocket of a morning coat. Surveillance footage shows that the garment was brought in by an elderly woman, possibly Miss Darlington herself, in disguise.”

“She is growing bolder,” Illya observed thoughtfully.

“It would seem so, Mr. Kuryakin. No doubt our lack of success has boosted her confidence.” He sighed. “Not to mention our outdated infrastructure. In keeping with the spirit of our recent agreement, I've notified Victor Marton of our situation. His staff in Paris informs him that it's snowing inside THRUSH's HQ as well, although their blizzard is mostly confined to the Cafeteria.”

Napoleon looked up in surprise. “Marton's still in the States? Why?”

“I understand he's seeking treatment for the scars that resulted from that dreadful skin ailment. Poor Victor -- he always was rather vain.”

The two agents traded glances. “Sir, I hate to bring it up but -- are you sure it's wise to be so open about our security issues with a THRUSH?”

Waverly eyebrows knitted together, an impenetrable thicket of displeasure. “We agreed to a truce, and I intend to honor it.”

“But --”

“The decision is not open for debate.”

Napoleon looked at Illya, who shrugged.

“Now, Mr. Solo, do you have something substantive to offer?”

Napoleon sat up a little straighter. “Not much, I'm afraid. If Whimsy is trying to bring down our two organizations, she's going about it in a strange way. What can she possibly hope to accomplish with these bizarre tactics? Frogs, grasshoppers, darkness, hail -- they're disruptive, certainly, and embarrassing, but there's been no permanent damage.”

“Not yet,” Illya murmured darkly.

“The thing is, she seems to be one step ahead of us at every turn. We've checked and rechecked Security protocols, and there are no internal leaks.” He ran his hand through his hair. “It's as though she knows what we're going to do even before _we_ do.”

Illya snorted. “Perhaps the lady reads tea leaves.”

“Gentlemen, I see no reason for levity. Whatever mischief Miss Darlington has planned, let's not give her the chance to succeed. Mr. Solo, I want you and Mr. Kuryakin to go back to the Varga estate tomorrow morning. Clearly, the two of you stirred up a hornet's nest on your first visit to _Erebos._ Talk to Varga. Dig deeper this time. What is the nature of his relationship with the Darlington woman? Is he an innocent, duped by a pretty face, or is he in league with her, actively bankrolling her efforts? Is he her lover, perhaps? A relative? Or is he her employer? We need to know more about Varga's connection to all of this.”

“Yes sir.” Chairs scraped as the men rose to leave.

“You go ahead, Illya,” Napoleon declared quietly. “I'll be along in a minute.”

Illya glanced back, frowning. After a moment, he nodded and turned away. The door hissed shut behind him.

“Sir?”

A thin stream of smoke drifted up from the old man's pipe. “You have a question, Mr. Solo?”

“More of a concern, sir.” Napoleon took a deep breath, wondering how far he could reasonably take this. “I'm -- uncomfortable with the extent of Victor Marton's involvement in our investigation.”

“I see. Go on.”

“I'm not sure it's wise to share sensitive information with the enemy. I mean, isn't it possible that the entire Affair is his doing? That he's setting us up somehow? He is a THRUSH, after all, one of their best.”

“You think I'm being too trusting, is that it?”

“Perhaps if I understood your reasons --” He watched the pale smoke rise, wreathing the old man's troubled face.

Waverly released a long, drawn-out sigh. “I suppose, as CEA, you deserve an explanation. Sit down, Mr. Solo, and I'll tell you a story.”

Napoleon resumed his seat.

“What I am about to tell you cannot leave this office. Not even Mr. Kuryakin is to know. Understood?”

He nodded, although the thought of keeping secrets from Illya was not a pleasant one.

“I first met Victor Marton in London, at a small gathering a few years before the War. I was with British Intelligence at the time, and he was with the ST. He impressed me then as a man of unusually high ideals, intelligent, passionate and headstrong -- a man not unlike yourself, Mr. Solo. We became good friends. Victor was best man at my wedding, and I, at his.

“When the War came, we were paired by our respective governments on a number of covert missions. Victor proved himself to be a daring and courageous partner – you might say he was Solo to my Kuryakin. Heaven knows, he saved my life on more than one occasion. Once, when we were trapped behind enemy lines, he pushed me out of the line of fire, and took a bullet in his belly that surely would have killed me.”

Napoleon tried to imagine the wily old THRUSH as a selfless hero. He failed. “The War was a long time ago,” he replied quietly. “People change.”

“Perhaps. And yet --” Waverly drew thoughtfully on his pipe. “After the War ended, Victor and I remained close. When a group of us, all former agents from the international intelligence community, met in Geneva in '46 to lay the groundwork for UNCLE, Victor was there. It may interest you to know that the man you call 'wily and deceitful' was one of the primary architects of UNCLE's Charter.”

“Victor Marton -- one of UNCLE's founders?” Napoleon sat back, stunned.

Waverly watched the subtle play of emotions sweeping across his CEA's face.

“What happened to him?” Napoleon asked at last. “What went wrong?”

“There was an accusation made against him. A serious accusation. It came from the highest levels of the organization -- I think you know who I mean. It wasn't true, and he was eventually proven innocent, but it was years too late. The damage had been done. Victor was angry, consumed with bitterness. He felt betrayed by the very organization he had helped to create. He defected to THRUSH, vowing to see his accusers pay.”

Waverly glanced down at his pipe, surprised to find that it had gone out. He sighed, and pushed it away. “Victor was a good man once. I'd like to believe he could be that man again.” His gray eyes grew hard, hawk-sharp. “But don't for one instant think me a sentimental old fool, Mr. Solo. I know Marton better than anyone else alive. I worked with him, fought beside him. I know his talents, and I know the devastating damage he's capable of inflicting upon this organization. Rest assured: I will do what must be done to protect UNCLE. Whatever the cost.”

 

 **Act II:  The Kiss of Death**  

Illya steered their Pontiac -- this one a more discreet shade of pale blue -- around the dusty curve, slowing briefly to allow a tractor towing a load of hay to cross the road. They drove on once it had passed, following the county road eastward to the village of Manorville, and to _Erebos,_ Aristotle Varga's lavish Long Island estate.  
  
 Much of the surrounding terrain was scorched, black and bare where the recent fire had burned through. Of the countless scrub oaks and pitch pines that had dotted the landscape, all that remained were a few charred husks, their blackened branches clawing the sky. They passed a series of cranberry bogs, mercifully spared during the conflagration. Napoleon pointed. “Turn there.”

Illya swung into the breach, and the Pontiac passed through the imposing iron gates of _Erebos_. He watched the guardhouse recede in his rear view mirror. “No sentry. And the gate was open. Something is not right.”

Napoleon checked the clip on his Walther. “Looks like they're expecting us. Keep an eye out for the welcoming committee.”

Illya nodded grimly.

They continued up the wide, winding drive, past a grove of apple trees, lush with blossoms, and the herd of bright blue sheep they had encountered on their first visit. The sheep took no notice of them, content to graze peacefully on the perfectly manicured grass.

They pulled to a stop in the main courtyard, and made their way toward the house. “I don't like this,” Illya remarked as they approached the main entry. “It is far too quiet. Where are the servants?” He reached up to ring the bell, but Napoleon stopped him with a gesture.

“Wait.” He prodded the door with his foot; it swung open on its hinges.

They drew their weapons by silent agreement, and stepped over the threshold.

The plump body of Vitrios, Varga's manservant, lay sprawled in the foyer, his cloudy eyes frozen open in surprise and terror. A telephone lay beside the body, the handset smashed, wiring ripped from the wall. Napoleon took up a defensive position in the alcove while Illya knelt to examine the body.

“Garrotted. Expertly done, too.” He lifted the dead man's arm, noting the stiffness of the limb. “Joints are fixed. _Rigor mortis_ is fully developed. There is considerable lividity as well. He has been dead at least twelve hours, Napoleon, and perhaps as long as a day. Whoever did this, they are long gone by now.”

A trail of dark blood led across the marble tiles, a chronicle of the man's final, agonized moments.

“Looks like he was trying to summon help.” Napoleon sighed. “Let's check the study.” Their footsteps echoed in the vast, empty hall.

The room was exactly as they remembered it, down to the pair of lucite chairs flanking the fireplace. The remains of a fire smoldered in the grate.

“Who would light a fire on such a warm day?” Napoleon wondered, prodding the ashes with a poker. “Looks like they were covering their tracks.”

“Napoleon. Over here.”

Aristotle Varga reclined in his plastic Bauhaus egg, eyes closed, bony hands resting atop the open book on his lap. He looked peaceful, as though he had drifted off to sleep while reading. The bright slash of blood staining his crisp white shirt told another story.

“His throat has been slit,” Illya reported. “A long, thin blade, perhaps a stiletto.” He pried the book from the dead man's hand. “A King James Bible. Odd, he did not seem a religious man.”

“I doubt he was, Illya. The whole scene has a staged feel. Don't you agree?”

Illya studied the open page. “Deuteronomy 32:35: _'It is mine to avenge. I will repay. In due time, their foot will slip. Their day of disaster is near, and their doom rushes in upon them.'”_ He looked up. “A message?”

“A warning. Whatever Whimsy's got planned, she's nearly ready to put it into operation. We haven't got much time.”

Illya turned the corpse's head to the side. “Napoleon, come and take a look at this.”

Solo glanced at the body, and drew in a sharp breath.

In the center of Varga's flaccid cheek was the perfect imprint of a kiss.

“'Whimsy's shade,'” Napoleon confirmed, “Tangerine Passion.” His stomach turned, recalling what those enticing lips had promised once. “She kissed him, and then she killed him.”

“Or the other way around. There is no way of knowing.”

“Either way, it was the kiss of death for Varga.” He stared down at the body, thinking that the frail little man looked even more fragile in death. “I said that Whimsy Darlington hadn't done any permanent damage. Looks like I was wrong.”

 

*/*/*/

 

“A pity about Varga,” Waverly grumbled, his voice sounding no less irritated over Napoleon's new, upgraded communicator. “He could have been a useful source of information about our adversary. Ah, well, it can't be helped, I suppose.” The sound of papers being shuffled. “Has the Cleanup crew arrived?”

“I expect them at any minute, sir.”

“Good, good. We've managed to trace the morning coat to _Lars Stylo,_ an exclusive men's clothing store on Madison Avenue. Miss Rogers has made an appointment for you to be measured for a new suit there this afternoon. The appointment will provide you with ample opportunity to investigate the premises, and to make the necessary enquiries.”

“Considering the number of suits you manage to destroy,” Illya muttered _sotto voce_ , “perhaps you should stock up while you're there.”

Napoleon waved him away. “What about Illya?” he asked.

“Mr. Kuryakin will remain at _Erebos_ to wait for the Cleanup crew. He can assist them in recovering any files or other information that might prove significant to our investigation. There are also the animals to be considered; various zoos and wildlife foundations have already been contacted. They will be arriving throughout the afternoon to take temporary custody of the sanctuary's denizens.”

“Understood, sir,” Illya leaned in to reply. “I can ride back with one of the vans once we are done here.”

“Very good.” A pause. “Mr. Solo?”

“Yes sir?”

“ _Do_ try not to break the bank at _Lars Stylo._ Your expense account is not a bottomless well of plenty, you know.”

 

*/*/*/

 

Napoleon stepped through the revolving glass doors, and entered the rarefied world that was _Lars Stylo._ A sales representative, sporting a white orchid in his lapel, materialized by his side within seconds.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Napoleon Solo. I have an appointment. I'm in need of a suit for an event I'm attending, and my good friend, Aristotle Varga, recommended your establishment.”

“Of course, Mr. Solo. Mr. Varga is one of our most cherished clients. As I recall, we fitted him for a morning suit just recently, at the request of his friend, a Miss --”

“ --Darlington?”

“Yes, that's the name. A charming young woman.”

“I've been hoping to run into her. You wouldn't happen to recall the address she gave?”

“I'm terribly sorry,” the man replied, and now his tone carried a distinct chill. “All client information is strictly confidential.”

Napoleon turned on his thousand-watt smile. “But surely an exception can be made in the cause of true love? The young lady and I --”

The salesman relaxed. “Oh, I see. Unfortunately, I don't believe Miss Darlington gave an address. Now, if you would care to follow me through to our private salon --”

Napoleon held up a hand. “I'd prefer to wander around a bit first.”

“Of course, sir. Perhaps you would enjoy a glass of wine while you're looking?”

 “Cognac. _Favraud Vielle Reserve, 1893._ Baccarat.”

The man's eyes widened. He repressed a gasp. “At once.” He scurried away, already tallying up the cost of wooing this most discerning client.

Having divested himself of an inconvenient shadow, Napoleon was now free to explore his surroundings, unhindered. He identified the exits, memorized the locations of the security cameras, and noted the position of every person in the store. Everything seemed normal.

He had to admit that the suits on display in the showroom were among the finest he had ever seen, with their luxurious fabrics and hand-sewn buttonholes. _Maybe when this Affair is over --_

“Your cognac, Mr. Solo.”

The obsequious salesperson had returned, Baccarat crystal goblet in hand. Napoleon accepted the cognac with disdain, and took a moment to warm the glass bowl between his hands. The first sip was ambrosia; He allowed a brief smile to curl his lips.

“Perhaps you'll allow me to tell you about the exceptional services we offer here at _Lars Stylo,”_ the man began, just as Napoleon's communicator went off.

“Excuse me,” he said, already moving toward the exit. “I have to take this call.”

“Call?” The man peered at the odd, beeping thing. “On your pen?”

Napoleon couldn't help smiling. “It's a prototype.” He made his escape before the dumbfounded man could ask another question.

“Solo here.”

“Napoleon? Lisa Rogers. There's been a -- a development.” Her voice was tightly controlled; Napoleon thought she might have been crying.

“What's wrong, Lisa? Has something happened to Mr. Waverly?” His heart hammered with fear.

“No, he's safe, but --” He could hear her striving for control. “You are instructed to proceed to the Waverly compound immediately. I'll contact Illya and have him meet you there.” Her voice caught. “Someone has kidnapped Mr. Waverly's granddaughter.”

*/*/*/

**Act III:   Day of Disaster**

Alexander Waverly sat beside his elegant young wife, patting her hand absently as he spoke. He seemed to have aged overnight.

“Irene was on the way to her weekly ballet class. The perpetrators killed the chauffeur and a female bodyguard to get to her. Both were highly trained agents.” He handed Napoleon an envelope. “They left this behind, taped to the steering column.”

Napoleon slid the single sheet of stationery from the envelope:   

_'Vengeance is mine. Yet one more plague will I bring upon you. I will go forth, and all the firstborn shall die, from the firstborn of the man who sits upon the throne to the firstborn of the servant. And there shall be a great cry throughout the land, such as there never has been, nor will be again.'”_

He looked up in shock. “The tenth plague. She really means to do it, then?”

“Yes, Mr. Solo, the tenth plague. The death of the firstborn.”

Arabella Waverly flinched at the words but, as befitted the daughter of a diplomat, she did not cry, though she held onto her husband's hand as though it were fused to her very soul.

“Irene's mother was Alexander's oldest child,” she explained in her lightly accented contralto. “Both her parents were killed in a car accident two years ago. Irene has been living with us ever since. She's the firstborn of the next generation, our eldest grandchild.”

“And that's why she was targeted?”

“We believe so.” Arabella's clear gray eyes were filled with pain. “Her name means 'peace.' Did you know that?”

He shook his head. “That's lovely.”

“Irene is only six. She's just a little girl, and she has already suffered more sorrow than any child should have to bear. Bring her home to us, Mr. Solo, please. Bring her home.”

“I will, ma'am,” he replied softly. “Count on it.”

A sudden commotion at the front entrance drew their attention. Alarms sounded. Shouting. A door slammed. A vase fell to the floor, shattering. Agents appeared from all corners of the house, their weapons drawn. Napoleon drew his Walther and sprinted toward the vestibule.

“Take your filthy hands off of me, you miserable  _cochon!”_  Victor Marton cried. “I am not here to do harm! I swear!”

“Let him go, gentlemen,” Waverly ordered. The agents stepped back with obvious reluctance. “All right, Victor. You'd best explain your presence here posthaste. I have neither time nor patience to waste on --”

“Alexander, please.”

Waverly fell silent.

“That  _salope_  has my grandson, Louis.”

In the shocked silence that followed this announcement, Arabella Waverly rose, a vision of grace and compassion. She placed an arm around Marton's shoulder. “Come and sit down, Mr. Marton,” she said gently. “Alexander, please pour our guest a brandy.”

Marton's hands shook as he accepted the glass. He stared at the shimmering amber liquid as though he had forgotten what to do with it.

“Drink it down, Victor,” Waverly insisted. “It will help to steady your nerves.”

Marton downed the glass. Waverly refilled it without comment. He drank it down a second time, and the color began to return to his face.

“Now, Victor, suppose you tell us what happened.”

“Where do I begin?” he sighed. “Louis is Etienne's boy. You remember Etienne, Alexander?”

Waverly nodded. “I was sorry to hear of your loss, Victor. Cancer, wasn't it?”

“Yes. Thank you.” He wiped his brow with trembling hands. “ Louis is seven years old, nearly eight. He is my sole grandchild, the only thing I have left of my son. He was taken from his tutor's home this afternoon by two armed thugs. They left a note in his book bag. Just five words: ' _An eye for an eye.'_ ”

Napoleon took the note from Victor's outstretched hand, and passed it to the nearest agent. “Get this to our people in the Lab right away, Mr. Chang. Tell them to test for anything they can think of. Anything, do you understand? No matter how remote.”

“Yes sir.” The agent sprinted away.

He turned to Marton. “Has the tutor been questioned? He may recall seeing or hearing something that could help us.”

“Unfortunately, we cannot ask. The man is dead.”

 _By whose hand?_ Napoleon wondered.  _Failure was seldom tolerated at THRUSH._ “Both notes explicitly mention vengeance, so we can assume that's the motive for everything Whimsy has done thus far. Yet, neither of you has ever had dealings with her. So -- who is she working for, who would hate UNCLE  _and_  THRUSH enough to want to bring both organizations down?”

The two men looked at one another, baffled. “It could be anyone,” Waverly said finally. “A disgraced THRUSH, whose schemes we foiled. Or a would-be dictator abandoned by THRUSH, his visions of unopposed power thwarted by UNCLE.”

“What about a personal vendetta? Can either of you think of someone who would hate both of you enough to do this?”

After a moment, Victor spoke. “Harry Beldon. But he's dead.”

Waverly shrugged. “Someone from the War, perhaps.”

Napoleon's communicator beeped. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” He turned away. “Solo here.”

“Napoleon, it's Lisa Rogers again. Communications has been monitoring your apartment's answering service as per usual and -- well, there's a message I think you need to hear.”

“All right. Go ahead and patch it through.”

Static, and the sound of Napoleon's voice asking the caller to please leave a message. And then:

“Napoleon, it's Artemesia. Please pick up! Oh, please! Hippolyta's disappeared! We were getting ready for the picnic, setting up the grill, and she went into the house to get more hamburger rolls. Only, she never came back! Her purse is here, and her things, but she's gone. Just gone!” Artemesia stifled a sob. “I  _know_  something bad has happened to her. There's this creepy note somebody left on the kitchen table -- it said not to call the police if I wanted to see my sister again. It said to call you. Why would somebody say that? Are you in some kind of trouble? Oh, Napoleon, where  _are_  you? Please, please pick --!”

The message cut off. “I'm sorry, Napoleon. That's all there is,” Lisa Rogers said, not unkindly. “Hippolyta is your sister, isn't she?”

“My oldest sister,” Napoleon replied, feeling an icy cold fear wrap itself around his heart. “The firstborn in our family.” Napoleon forced himself to breathe, to think.  _There was a way to make sense of this. There had to be._

“Miss Rogers,” Waverly spoke into the silence, “have a pair of our agents pick up Mr. Solo's sister Artemesia, and bring her to the Waverly compound. She'll be safer here.”

Napoleon nodded gratefully. “I'll feel better, knowing she's --” He stopped as a terrible realization struck him. “Lisa, has Illya checked in yet?”

“Illya?” A pause. “Isn't he with you?”

_Illya. The firstborn son._

The room went deathly still.

At that moment, the old housekeeper, her eyes red from crying, tiptoed into the parlor carrying a portable handset. “Excuse me for interrupting,” she said, her graveled voice trembling, “but there's a phone call for Mr. Solo. A Miss Darlington. She said it was urgent.”

Waverly's eyes narrowed. “Thank you, Mrs. Adams. We'll take it in here.”

She plugged the handset into the wall, and departed, sniffling into her hankie.

Napoleon lifted the receiver. “How did you get this number?”

The sound of laughter. “Ah, Napoleon, you do amuse me! How do I know any of the things I know? Isn't that the question you should be asking?”

He gritted his teeth, and forced himself to remain civil. “All right, then, I'm asking.”

More laughter. “And here I thought you were a bright boy. I'm disappointed, Napoleon. You haven't thought it through, and that's a shame. Your loved ones are depending on you to find them before it's too late.”

“Too late? For what?”

“Why, to save their lives, of course. In three hours, a series of explosions will rock the greater New York area. The children have been placed at the site of the first explosion, your sister at the second, and your partner at the third. The blasts will occur simultaneously. If you're lucky enough to solve my riddle, you may arrive in time to save one of your 'Innocents' -- perhaps two, if you're very clever. There will not, however, be sufficient time to save them all.

“How will you choose, Napoleon? Which of your loved ones will be permitted to live, and which will be consigned to death? And how will you live with your decision, knowing that two little children, or a sister, or a friend, died because of your choice?”

Napoleon could feel the adrenaline coursing through his body. He trembled with rage and fear. “Why are you doing this, Whimsy? You must have a reason.”

“Excellent, Napoleon, you're finally beginning to ask the right questions. Now all you need are answers. Oh, by the way, if anyone other than you attempts to save the hostages, or assists you in any way, I will know, and all three bombs will be detonated immediately. Do we understand one another?”

He closed his eyes. “Perfectly.”

“Let's get started then, shall we? Clue Number One: _'Il dolce suono.'_ Clue Number Two:  _'Which did you like best? The ants or the wild geese?'_ Clue Number Three: _'And they're off.'”_ She giggled, a giddy sound that hinted at the borders of madness.

“You're going to have to give me more than --”

“Better get moving, lover boy. The clock's ticking, tick-tock, tick-tock.”

The line went dead.

He turned to Waverly, feeling the weight of the world descend upon his shoulders, feeling the seconds slipping away. “Sir, I have to leave right now, and no questions asked. If anyone tries to follow, or makes an attempt to locate the hostages, they will all be killed. Those are her conditions. Do you understand? You must do nothing. Nothing at all.”

For a moment, Waverly looked as though he would refuse. Then he nodded. “Very well, Mr. Solo. We'll do it her way.” He closed his eyes; in that moment, he looked every one of his seventy-odd years. “And Mr. Solo?”

“Sir?”

“Do be careful. I should very much hate to lose you, too.”  
  
  
  
**Act IV: Tick-tock**

He slid behind the wheel of the Pontiac, his thoughts whirling.  _Where to look? What did the clues mean? How much time was left?_ Engine idling, uncertainty eating up the seconds, he summarized what little he knew.

The first clue,  _“Il Dolce Suono”_ \-- literally “the sweet sound” -- was the famous aria from  _Lucia Di Lammermoor._ The mad scene. He gave thanks that his Mother had infused her children with a love for classical opera.  _Was one of the hostages being held at the new Metropolitan Opera House?_

The second clue, “Which did you like best? The ants or the wild geese?” was a line from T. H. White's  _The Once And Future King,_ a book he had read several years back, while recovering from surgery to remove a ruptured appendix.  _What did King Arthur have to do with anything?_

The third clue,  _“_ And they're off!” suggested a racetrack. Horse racing. Aqueduct and Belmont Park. Thoroughbreds.  _Something there, but what?_

It was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Whimsy had said that it was possible to rescue one, or perhaps two of the hostages before time ran out. If that were true, the hostages could not possibly be at the Met, or at a racetrack. Those venues were far too large to cover in three hours, not to mention the amount of time it would take to travel from uptown Manhattan to suburban Elmont.

He was missing something. Something important.

_Think outside the box._

The distance between venues was too great for success, given the three-hour time limit. Therefore --

_Whimsy had lied! The clues had nothing to do with the location of the hostages. They were references to something else! But what?_

Conscious of the seconds ticking away, he went over the clues again: An aria from an opera. The story of King Arthur. A racetrack. He sighed. _Nothing._

He pictured the two young children, Louis and little Irene, whose name meant “peace,” held captive in some dusty warehouse. They would surely be terrified. The thought made him sick at heart. Hippolyta, his much-beloved big sister -- another unwilling sacrifice, never knowing why she had been marked for death. And Illya, who understood the mission, and the cost, and would die forgiving him with his last breath.

_Dear God, please keep them safe._

An image of his father came to mind just then, a whisper of memory plucked from childhood. They'd been sailing the  _Pursang_  in Penobscot Bay, delighting in the glorious speed of the vessel, relishing the feel of the salt spray on their faces. Then, as afternoon rolled into evening, the wind had died unexpectedly. They were becalmed, their reserve engine stalled. Things looked bleak. Napoleon could still hear his father's voice, calm and reassuring, drifting to him out of the gathering darkness:  _“When you lose the wind, Son,_ _sometimes you have to change the sail and try another tack.”_

The words had comforted him then, and they did so now. He took a deep breath.  _Okay, Dad, I'm raising the spinnaker, just like you taught me. Show me the wind._

As if in answer, a random thought tickled his awareness. He seized it before it could vanish.

Not  _“why,”_  or  _“where,”_  but  _“how?”_ That was the real question. Everything else was misdirection.

 _How_ did she do it?  _How_ had Whimsy managed to steal such a vast quantity of top secret information from under their very noses? Waverly's private number. UNCLE HQ's Security codes, which were changed daily.  _How_ was she able to time her moves with such precision? She knew what we were going to do, even before we --?

And then, like a bolt of lightning, he had it.

_Not just any opera -- Lucia Di Lammermoor! Not just a racetrack, but a particular racetrack -- Belmont Park! And not King Arthur, but -- !_

Napoleon gunned the engine and took off at an insane speed toward the highway. He knew where Whimsy was now. He could only hope that the hostages were close by, and that he wasn't too late to save them.

 

*/*/*/

 

The plate glass windows were dark at The Loved One Mortuary, the curtains, drawn. Napoleon parked the car around the corner on West 78th, checked to make certain that the device he had stopped to retrieve at HQ was functioning correctly, and jogged the short distance back to the entrance. It was locked.  _Perhaps the element of surprise was in his favor for once_  . He set to work on the lock with cool efficiency, and was gratified when the tumblers gave after only a few tries. He eased the door open.

“Hands up, Mr. Solo.” The barrel of a gun pressed up between his shoulder blades.

Napoleon froze.  _Of course. Another of Whimsy's traps._  “Croyden, isn't it? You were expecting me, I see.”

“Don't move, mate,” the gruff Aussie warned. “I'd hate to have to disobey orders and kill you.”

“I'd hate that too,” Napoleon replied smoothly. “Say, we never did get to finish our tour. How are those bactrian camels of yours doing?”

“Shut up.” The gun remained pressed against his spine while the second goon, a giant of a man, searched him for weapons. “Move forward now, and no tricks.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

He stepped into the foyer, closely flanked by the two guards. They bound his hands behind him, and guided him down the back staircase to a small lounge decorated in tasteful shades of gray. Arrangements of gladioli and lilies adorned the tables and alcoves, their fragrance cloyingly sweet in the overheated space. A selection of coffins lined the far wall, each resting atop a movable stainless steel gurney.

Whimsy Darlington reclined upon a white sofa, her violet eyes blazing with triumph. “Napoleon,” she said, “all trussed up and ready for our date?” She gestured toward the adjacent armchair.

“I'll stand, thanks. About the hostages --” He took in the room at a glance, his gaze coming to rest upon a familiar metal door, set incongruously into one wall. Iron bars covered the cell's tiny window.  _Maybe --_

“Silly boy, they're not here,” Whimsy said. “Surely you didn't think it would be that easy?”

His heart sank. “Where are they, Whimsy?”

Her eyes flashed fire. “Wrong question, lover boy. The hostages are irrelevant. It's the reason that matters.” A moment later, her face settled back into flawless repose. Napoleon watched the metamorphosis with revulsion, wondering how he could ever have thought such a creature beautiful.

“Why don't we just kill him and get it over with?” Croyden snarled.

“Patience, dear. I want Mr. Solo to know why he's dying. Why they're all going to die. I want him to suffer, like my mother suffered.”

“So it,'s true,” Napoleon remarked quietly. “You're Lucia Belmont's daughter.”

“In the flesh. Surprised?”

“Not really.”

She made a little moue of disappointment. “I was so hoping.”

“Let the hostages go, Whimsy. They're not part of this. They've done nothing to you. The children --”

“ -- will serve as payment for what THRUSH and UNCLE did to my mother!” She stood, and began to pace, her stiletto heels stabbing the plush carpet with undisguised fury. “My mother served THRUSH faithfully for years. For years! And all she wanted in return was a promotion. They owed her that. But those Neanderthals couldn't stand the thought of a woman in the Hierarchy. They passed her over time and time again. Marton was the worst -- he held my mother in contempt, ridiculed her at every turn!

“But my mother had a plan. Oh yes, she was finally going to show them! She was going to give THRUSH Merlin's Electronic Thought Translator. They couldn't refuse to promote her after that.” She reached into one of the flower arrangements, snapped off a lily. She crushed it in her hands, and tossed the ruined petals to the floor. “But no, Your sainted Mr. Waverly had to get in the way! He sent you and that Russian wolfhound of yours to stop my mother from obtaining the Translator. He cost her her life, and now he's going to pay! You're all going to pay!”

The woman was growing more irrational by the second. Napoleon pitched his voice in soothing tones. “It must have been difficult, losing your mother like that.”

“Don't patronize me!” Whimsy's eyes flared with rage. “My mother was smarter than all of you! She was the only one who thought to search Merlin's apartment after his death. She found the blueprints for the Translator. I discovered them when I was going through her things, after --” Her violet eyes grew moist.

Napoleon used the momentary distraction to work on his bonds. As he did so, he edged his body toward the row of caskets. One step. Two.

“I've spent the past three years building my own Translator,” Whimsy went on, lost in reminiscence. “A new and improved version. Care to see?” She removed one of her earrings, a pearly monstrosity, and held it out for Napoleon's examination. “I've miniaturized the components -- a portable mind reading machine the size of a silver dollar, with an extended range of nearly thirty miles. Ingenious, isn't it?”

Napoleon glanced at the wall clock. Less than twenty minutes remained. He struggled against his bonds, wincing as the ropes cut into his flesh.

“Perhaps you'd like to see a firsthand demonstration of the Translator's ability. I've already used it on you dozens of times without your knowledge.” She closed her eyes, concentrating. “For example -- right now, dear Napoleon, you are thinking --”

She gasped. Her eyes flew open. “It's not working. The Translator's not working! What have you done?” She backhanded him across the face. “You've set up a jamming device, haven't you? Haven't you?” She struck him again.

Napoleon tasted blood.

“Mako!”

The larger of the two men stepped forward. “Yes, Miss?”

“Go and find Mr. Solo's jamming device. Destroy it. Croyden will stay with me to guard our guest.”

“At once, Miss.”

Mako lumbered up the stairs; Napoleon heard the front door open and close.  _The odds were improving._ And what was more, he could feel the ropes beginning to give. He moved a few steps closer to the row of coffins.

“That's far enough.”

“I was just wondering which one of these little beauties you intend for me?”

Whimsy smiled, a tangerine slash of pure evil. “What a lovely idea, Napoleon. Yes, I think I shall bury you in one of Mother's caskets. Alive, of course.”

Another step. “Lucky me. Do I get to choose which one?”

The idea seemed to amuse her. “Be my guest.”

He maneuvered to stand behind the first coffin, tugging desperately at his bonds _._ “This one seems rather cramped. And the lining is cheap. I think I'd prefer something roomier.” He shrugged, and moved on to the next. As he did so, he felt his bonds fall away. “Better,” he said of the second coffin, “but a bit ornate for my taste.”

The third casket was made of oak and reinforced steel, and adorned with heavy brass handles. Napoleon estimated its weight at about three hundred pounds. “I like this one,” he said. “It certainly seems sturdy enough for my eternal repose.”

“Our Deluxe Versailles model -- an excellent choice. Too bad Mother isn't here to see you laid to --”

Napoleon shoved with all his might. The casket rolled across the room, knocking Croyden to the floor. Napoleon heard several of the man's ribs crack, watched as the gun flew out of his hands. The Aussie struggled to his knees, groping for the weapon, but Napoleon got to it first. He aimed, and shot the man between the eyes. Croyden was dead before he hit the floor.

“No!” Whimsy shrieked. She leaped forward, clawing at Napoleon's face as she fought him for the gun. Tables overturned and lamps toppled as the pair struggled in the close confines of the room.

“You can't stop me!” she cried. “It's too late!”

At that moment, Mako reappeared at the top of the stairs. “I turned off the UNCLE man's jamming device --” He took in the situation at a glance and drew his weapon. He hesitated, waiting for a clear shot.

“Shoot!” Whimsy screamed. “Shoot, you fool!”

Mako fired.

A gasp of pain, and Whimsy Darlington fell to the floor, mortally wounded.

Napoleon rolled behind the sofa and fired his own weapon. Mako tumbled down the stairs, dead as a stone.

Solo knelt beside Whimsy, cradling her head in his arms, watching the life ebb away, and with it, his only chance to save his friends. “The hostages, Whimsy,” he demanded. “Where are they?”

She smiled, and coughed up blood. “I'll never --”

He ripped the earrings from her ears, and clipped them on. “The hostages. Tell me where they are!”

“No, I won't --”

_A boat._

“Where, Whimsy?”

She gasped, smiled, and was still.

But he had recognized the vessel. It was his own thirty-foot sloop, the  _Pursang,_ currently moored at the Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin, a little more than a block away _._ He looked up at the clock.  _Nine minutes._ He took off at a run.

He reached his car, only to realize that he no longer possessed the keys.  _No time to hotwire the engine._ He ran, down 79th Street and across Riverside Park, his heart threatening to burst in his chest. He had just cleared the Hudson Parkway overpass when the explosion came. The sound was tremendous; his ears popped. An orange fireball briefly lit the sky.

He stared, aghast, and then began to run again, across the Riverside Promenade, past O'Neal's Bar and Grille.  _Perhaps there was still time to --_

He reached the dock where the  _Pursang_  had been moored, and stopped, tears welling in his eyes.

The  _Pursang_ was engulfed in flames. He could feel the heat, even from this distance. The fire rose high into sky, tendrils of smoke licking the moonless, ink-black night. Debris floated on the water -- planks of scorched mahogany; part of a rudder; a battered first aid kit. In the distance, sirens howled.

People stood on the decks of their houseboats and yachts, staring in horror at the scene. Several nearby ketches prepared to heave anchor, moving to safer berths, away from the destruction. It was unimaginable to think that anyone could have survived.

He would have walked through fire to reach them, but the Dockmaster blocked his path. “Sorry, Mister. It's too dangerous to go any closer. The dock's half-gone, and there's a possibility of more explosions. Fire department's on the way.” He paused. “Your sloop?”

Napoleon nodded.

The man hesitated. “Anyone on board?”

“Yes.” He could barely say the words. “Four people. Two adults and two children.”

“Jesus.”

Napoleon watched the  _Pursang_  burn, thinking of the children, and Hippolyta, and of Illya, hoping they had not suffered. He choked back a sob. Two innocent children, their lives ended in senseless violence. His sister, so talented and full of promise. And Illya, dear God, Illya -- He sank to the ground, overcome with grief.

He closed his eyes, but it was no good. The terrible images of this night could never be erased. They would haunt his dreams, and his nightmares, until the day he died. He stared into the deep, impenetrable darkness, tears rolling down his cheeks, wondering how to take the next breath, and the next, in a life so abruptly empty.

"Napoleon --"

His head snapped up.

“Over here.”

Against all hope, he saw them, treading water a few feet from an adjacent dock -- Illya, supporting the Waverlys' little girl on his shoulder, Hippolyta clutching the boy who, it seemed from the amount of splashing, could not swim.

“We could use a little help, Napoleon -- that is, if you're not too busy? There is no ladder, and --" He groaned."-- I seem to have broken my arm.”

Napoleon was by their side in a flash. He took the shivering girl from Illya's arms, and then the boy, wheezing, his lips blue with cold. The children were quickly snatched away by an elderly woman in hair curlers and fuzzy slippers. “Let's get these little ones warmed up,” she said kindly.

Hippolyta fell into her brother's arms with a cry of joy. He held onto her as though he would never let go.

The sound of sirens grew louder, and then ceased abruptly. Footsteps running. Someone wrapped a blanket around Hippolyta's shoulders, and led her away to the waiting ambulance over her protests.

Napoleon eased Illya onto the dock, mindful of his broken arm. His white shirt was torn and covered in blood, but he was otherwise unharmed.

“How?” Napoleon murmured. “I thought you were all dead.”

 We managed to overpower the two guards and escape over the side just before the explosion. The guards, I fear, were not so lucky.”

Napoleon glanced at the hull of the  _Pursang,_ still burning brightly in the harbor. “It was a near thing.”

“Yes.” Illya coughed, and winced at the pain in his ribs. “What about Whimsy?”

“Dead. Her henchmen, too.”

“And the Translator?”

“I have it.”

“Ah, well. Better UNCLE than THRUSH, I suppose.” Illya rose a trifle unsteadily. “We should call Headquarters. No doubt Mr. Waverly will be waiting for news of his granddaughter.”

“Illya.”

He turned.

“I'm --”

Illya smiled wearily. “Yes, Napoleon. I know.”

 

*/*/*/

 

The children had had their baths, and dinner, and cups of hot cocoa. Arabella carried a sleepy Irene upstairs to the Nursery, promising to read her a chapter from  _The Wind In the Willows_. Hippolyta and Artemesia, their sharp minds full of questions, had stayed awake as long as they could, but at last they too were compelled to retire for the night. Waverly escorted Victor and Louis to the door.

“Are you sure you won't stay until the morning?” he said. “We have plenty of room, and you both have been through a terrible ordeal today.”

"Thank you Alexander, but no. I have my reputation to protect. You understand.”

“Quite.”

They glanced back to where Napoleon and Illya sat, feet up on the Waverlys' best ottoman, nursing their drinks. They appeared relaxed, without a care in the world. Illya said something, and Napoleon laughed at the jest.

“They are quite extraordinary, those young men,” Victor remarked thoughtfully.

“Indeed they are. They share a bond that is most rare. Most rare.” The Old Man smiled, and his gray eyes softened. “In fact, I have only seen one other like it.”

Victor drew in a sharp breath. For an instant, his normally stoic visage reflected an unaccountable sadness. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but in the end, he merely nodded. “Good night, Alexander.”

Waverly sighed. “Good night, Victor.” 

THE END

 

 

 

 


End file.
